


Take Me Home

by atmilliways



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Other, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-27 18:49:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20050840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atmilliways/pseuds/atmilliways
Summary: Crowley is hurt. Aziraphale has a miraculously crash-less course in driving the Bentley.





	Take Me Home

**Author's Note:**

> **Originally Posted:** June 14, 2009 on Fanfiction dot Net  
**Set:** After the Apoca-whoops-nevermind.  
**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.
> 
> Written for the prompt, "Take me home and leave me there."

It was obvious to everyone on the road that Aziraphale had never learned to drive, despite the fact that he had been around for quite a bit longer than automobiles. The only things keeping the Bentley on the road were a string of increasingly desperate miracles and sheer force of will. He’d stopped muttering a steady stream of prayer under his breath after realizing that it made the Bentley a bit sluggish, and in the relative silence he could hear every pained groan that Crowley tried (but never quite managed) to swallow. 

"Get off the curb," Crowley snapped weakly from the back seat.

Aziraphale's hands tightened on the wheel. The white of his knuckles had, by now, spread to the rest of his hands. If the steering wheel were an animate object it would've been screaming in pain. He swerved the car into the next lane, away from the curb, and nearly into a bus. Crowley slid with the motion of the car and bashed his head against one of the back doors. The demon blessed loudly.

_ If you'd just use one of those safety belts_, Aziraphale thought but didn't say. Just like he hadn't said, _ What were you _ thinking _ getting that close to a loose hellhound_, or _ My dear, you look absolutely terrible_. If he were to say any of those things it would open a floodgate and then he might actually start to panic.

Not because Crowley might die — the demon had been inconveniently discorporated once or twice over the past several millennia, but he'd always come back eventually. What worried Aziraphale was that his friend was in a great deal of pain and there was only so much he could do about it.

He didn’t notice that he’d thought of Crowley as a friend. If he had, it might have occurred to him that one couldn't be this concerned about an acquaintance without admitting that they were a bit more than just a friend.

"Just drive to my flat," Crowley hissed. "Take me home and leave me there, before you crash my bloody fucking car…"

Aziraphale's head snapped around. The Bentley careened.

"I am _ not _ leaving you alone in this condition!"

Crowley glared at him through mangled sunglasses. "Watch the road, you idiot!"

A significant number of miracles later, they managed to reach the bookshop without any major traffic collisions. Perhaps a fender or two had ended up bent along the way, but the important thing at the moment was that none of them belonged to the Bentley. Aziraphale parked on the curb and helped Crowley inside, unheeding of the demon's protests or the usual requirement of needing a key to open a locked door.

"You really _ are _ an idiot," Crowley grumbled as he was forcibly settled onto a conveniently materialized sofa. It was chintz. He was trying hard not to look directly at it. "If that hound liked what it tasted and decided to track me—"

"Then your flat is the worst place you could be right now. It's far too obvious," Aziraphale interrupted. His hand settled anxiously on Crowley's shoulder. "Show me?"

"No." Crowley curled up a bit more on the sofa, eyes narrowing defensively.

With a pained look, the angel knelt down beside the sofa and gently removed the broken sunglasses. The fact that Crowley had made no attempt to repair them and regain some of his usual coolness was in itself telling. Rationally, he knew that Crowley would heal eventually and that praying for God to heal a demon would probably only cause more problems. Angelic sympathy, even at its most extreme, was still supposed to be rational. But…

"I _ am _ going to do what I can," Aziraphale said bluntly. "I'll limit myself to the flesh wounds if I must, but I'm not going to watch you suffer like this."

"Taking advantage of me in my weakened ssstate, angel?" Crowley mumbled. He put up a token struggle before relaxing just enough for Aziraphale to gently push him into laying flat.

For the number and intensity of the wounds, there wasn’t much blood. Crowley had probably put in the extra effort to clot well for the sake of the Bentley's upholstery. A human would likely have been dead by now. 

Aziraphale was so caught up in his inspection that he was a bit late and distracted in replying. "I wouldn't dream of taking advantage, my dear…"

Crowley laughed, sounding pained. The reason for this merely seemed obvious. (It wasn't, not even to Crowley.)

"No, of course not," the demon grumbled. But he didn't try to curl up again, staying unusually quiet as the angel prayed over him. 

As the wounds began to close, they left behind the vague certainty that he was going to be sick all over the bookshop's back room. Nothing quite turned Crowley’s stomach like a divine Healing — it was the infernal equivalent of not setting foot on a boat in ages and then getting seasick just standing near one.

After a moment he waved the angel away and tried to sit up. "That's enough. Unless you're _ trying _ to smite me, which in my opinion is really uncalled for…"

Aziraphale pushed him back down onto the sofa almost instantly. "You still need to rest. I'll… I'll go get you some tea."

"No tea," Crowley protested, his stomach churning at the thought of having to cope with even a liquid at the moment. 

He managed to catch Aziraphale's wrist before his so-called enemy went very far. Wasn't that perhaps the greatest irony of the day, being attacked by something on his own side and cared for by someone from the other? But they hadn’t been enemies for a long time, not really, and as for sides… Well, they had each other, and the Earth hadn’t been destroyed. That was about it. 

"Lissten, for the love of—” He interrupted himself with a grimace. “Listen. I told you not to drive my car, but you did anyway. I told you to take me back to my flat, but you didn't. Can't you just sit and _ not do anything _ for a minute?"

Struck temporarily dumb by this outburst, Aziraphale allowed himself to be tugged over to sit on the edge of the sofa. Surely there was nothing wrong with wanting to make Crowley more comfortable? It was the thought that counted, even if the implementation lacked style — surely, after all the time they'd known each other, Crowley could appreciate that.

"You don't have to be quiet, just…" Crowley sighed. He still held onto Aziraphale's wrist, thumb pressed lightly to pulse point. "Stay here. I need to… need to rest a bit." He didn’t need to, but he definitely wanted to. It was easier than examining the feeling that welled up in his chest at the thought of the angel not being close by. 

Aziraphale looked down at Crowley's hand, then his counterpart's weary face. It didn't seem as though Crowley was angry at him after all. "All right," he said softly, with a faint, relieved smile.

Crowley flashed him a slightly stronger grin. "Good."

A few moments later his eyelids began to droop, hiding his golden eyes by a few degrees. Moments later he was fast asleep, still holding on to Aziraphale's wrist.

They could have tea later.


End file.
